To be is to be perceived
by mercury73
Summary: Harry Potter is not normal, to his relatives' great despair. He's not a perfect image of his father, either, to Snape's great despair. Instead, the boy has the audacity to constantly contradict any and all of Snape's expectations, including being sorted into Ravenclaw. Harry stumbles through his first year at Hogwarts, not so much seeking danger as sauntering vaguely towards it.
1. Don't worry, everything's wrong

Author's note: I've always liked the idea of Harry being a Ravenclaw, and marvelled at how different his life would've been had he been sorted there instead of Gryffindor. I've also always found Snape to be an extremely interesting character – this is not me undermining all the horrible things he did or giving him redemption through a fic, but to write about Snape and alter is character ever so slightly to make him a little more sympathetic turned out to be a lot of fun. So that's what this is. Harry's in Ravenclaw, and Snape is only horrible some of the time. Enjoy.

PS: This fic is in progress and I can't promise regular updates due to responsibilities and school and life getting in the way, but I will _try._ Also, everything belongs to J. K. Rowling.

…

**CHAPTER ONE: EVERYTHING IS GOING WRONG SO THERE'S NO REASON WORRYING ABOUT IT**

Vernon and Petunia Dursley of Privet Drive number 4 led a quite ordinary life and felt very pleased with this accomplishment. They absolutely adored their son, Dudley, who was also quite ordinary except for the fact that he had somehow managed to become wider than he was tall. They lived in a perfectly acceptable house with a perfectly acceptable garden and owned a car that was slightly newer and more expensive than their neighbours'. But there was one part of their life that did not fit the perfect image of normality.

Harry Potter was not a normal boy, to his relatives' great despair. Not only did the boy have the audacity to look like something out of a Halloween costume catalogue (with his scrawny, pale body, hair that stood every which way, blazing green eyes and a lightning shaped scar on his forehead), but _strange_ things happened around him. Not to mention that the boy _himself_ was strange as well; he had no special talents, no deeming qualities and, unsurprisingly, no friends. It was just as well that the freak spent all of his time in the library; that way Dudley didn't need to be surrounded by such _abnormal_ behaviour.

Of course, Harry returned their sentiments exactly, staying at the library after school so that he wouldn't have to go home. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go; Dudley had ensured no one would try to make friends with him at the risk of his fist in their face. The library wasn't that bad, though. In fact, he quite enjoyed it– the smell of books waiting to be read always made him feel warm inside, as he settled in his usual corner of the library and found himself something to read (Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle became a favourite, not only because of the exciting stories, but also the _cleverness _of it; the logical deduction and methodically rationalising made by Holmes always impressed him).

And so, Harry spent most of his days keeping to himself, avoiding Dudley and his gang (and if he was unable to avoid them, outran them as they really were quite slow both literally and mentally), read, did his chores at Privet Drive (as neglecting chores wasn't an option, or else he would be rewarded with the wrath of Petunia with a frying pan or Vernon with a belt), and read some more. Literature, physics, mathematics, history, psychology, politics – Harry devoured one subject after the other, escaping reality for just a couple of hours every day, and dreaming of escaping the town forever almost every night.

…

Apparently, large and angry cousins don't appreciate it when you set snakes on them. Neither does big uncles with no neck, or aunts with horse-like features. Harry couldn't say he was surprised at this revelation but found great joy in the chaos that erupted. The whole situation was so comical, it was almost worth the resulting thrashing. Almost.

…

A stranger was sending Harry letters, and Vernon was being very infuriating about it as he refused to let Harry read any of them. In fact, both he and Petunia was very enigmatic about the whole thing, making Harry only that more curious. The _need to know_ nagged at him, and Harry was quite sure that if he didn't read that letter soon, he would probably explode. When he confessed this to his relatives, however, he was rewarded with a shriek from Petunia and a blow to the head from Vernon who spat that Harry was never to threaten his family again.

…

Miles away, in the office of Headmaster Dumbledore, the sun shone through the tall windows, small specks of dust dancing in the light. The room was full of stuff, things and objects, and little whirring noises came from the different sets of instruments, becoming dull background noise to the conversation being held in the room.  
On one side sat Dumbledore himself, attiring a rather large, pointy hat, a pair of halfmoon glasses sitting crookedly on his also crooked nose, and a purple robe with silver stars and moons that gave the illusion of moving whenever the Headmaster moved. On the other side sat the potions master, Severus Snape, clothed in his usual bat-like cape and not needing one of Dumbledore's sherbet lemons in order to look like he had tasted something rather sour.  
"In all due respect, Headmaster," began Severus stiffly. "I am sure there are other members of staff who would be enthralled to complete your task – members more suitable than me, might I add."  
"Ah well, Severus, that is where we disagree, I'm afraid," interjected Dumbledore, popping a sherbet lemon in his mouth as he stood up and paced calmly back and forth, hands clasped together on his back. Severus couldn't help but feel like a schoolchild being lectured. "I have the outmost confidence that you can safely escort Harry to Diagon Alley and deliver to him his ticket for the Hogwarts Express."  
_"It's Harry already then, headmaster?"_  
"Neither Minerva nor I can leave our responsibilities here at Hogwarts so soon before the 1st of September. I fear she is quite in over her head what with sending the first-years letters, visiting muggleborns, planning curriculums, and such – in fact she jinxed me when I suggested her taking Harry to Diagon Alley in addition to all her other responsibilities." Dumbledore spoke evenly and with some amusement, as if jinxing was usual interaction for them. "But that is beside the point. As I've said, I have the outmost confidence in you," Dumbledore spoke with finality as he seated himself once more. The two wizards stared at each other for a few moments, a silent battle of wills. Dumbledore had the audacity to look the perfect image of calm when Severus was feeling anything but, only resulting in the sour expression to take permanent residence on his face. It was clear to Severus, however, that the old man had made up his mind and that the staring contest was futile.  
"I will not coddle him," Snape stated simply, to which Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and chuckled at.  
"I have asked many things of you, Severus, but that is something I would only dream to ask for."  
"Just so we're on the same page," finished Snape, standing up and giving a short bow, before stalking out with his robe billowing behind him, ignoring the silent chuckles of the Headmaster.

…

Vernon had officially lost his mind, and as Harry sat in the back of his car trying to understand where exactly his uncle was taking them, he wondered whether this whole mess qualified as kidnapping. An image of Vernon in a court room brought a small smile to his lips ("I only did it because of the flying letters and the blasted owls!").  
But as the evening ventured on, Harry's smile soon disappeared. Even Dudley, who had been whining non-stop, was now quiet. Trying to understand where they were became futile as darkness enveloped the city. Everybody was hungry. No one was smiling. The stormy weather outside rather matched Harry's mood.  
They eventually came to a small port, where they rented a rowboat and bought some chips. Rain poured down, and Harry's big clothes stuck to his skinny body as he struggled to stand straight in the harsh wind.  
Somehow, they made their way to an island in the middle of the stormy water, and settled in a small cottage that creaked dangerously, threatening to collapse any minute in the storm. The cottage consisted of a narrow hallway with three doors; the first leading to the living room that consisted of a creaky sofa and a shabby coffee table, the second to a small kitchen with the _absolute_ bare necessities (though the owner had some tea in the cupboard as he wasn't a _barbarian_), and the third to a staircase to the second floor - the bedroom and a bathroom. At the sight of the bathroom, Harry decided to hold it for as long as possible.

Dudley was finally reunited with his best friend, food, and seemed to have a competition with himself on how many chips he could stuff into his large mouth in the shortest amount of time, his many chins wobbling in rhythm with his chewing as he laid on the sofa.  
Glancing at the clock, Harry was startled to realise he had been eleven years old for thirteen minutes already, but he felt nothing beyond that; his birthday had never been of any significance to anyone before and wasn't so now, either – not even Harry.

Vernon and Petunia made their way to the bedroom as Harry tried to decide which corner of the floor he preferred. The one furthest away from Dudley sufficed, and there he crawled himself into a ball as he wondered what on earth his life had come to. He also decided, though, that panicking was useless because it was all going terribly wrong anyway.  
"_That's the spirit_," said a voice in his mind, before it was rudely interrupted by banging from the door.  
Harry jumped up, pushing his glasses up his nose as he listened intently, feeling very awake. The wind was howling. The cottage was making all kinds of creaky noises. Dudley, who had fallen asleep now that the bag of chips was empty, was snoring rather loudly. And yet, Harry was convinced the banging was not just the storm or rusty pipes, but from someone knocking on the door. As Harry approached it, his thought jumbled.  
_"It's highly unlikely a burglar or kidnapper has the decency to knock on the door," _said a voice rationally, but it was quickly interrupted by another._  
__"Perhaps they're lulling you into a false sense of security before they attack,"_ it hissed._  
__"You're being paranoid, just open the door,"_ said a third, firmly._  
__"And if we die?"_ asked a fourth, voice quavering. _  
__"Then at least we don't have to be scared about dying again,"_ the second laughed bitterly._  
__"Stop being morbid and open the door,"_ said the third, finally.  
Harry took himself mentally by the collar and shook himself, before laying a hand on the knob and counting to three. On three, he ripped it open and almost fell over as the harsh wind stormed in.  
A tall, dark and sinister man towered imposingly over Harry, black robe billowing in the wind and eyes glowing darkly as they met Harry's green ones. All that was missing, really, was the effect of lightning, thunder and maniacal laughter in the background.  
_"Danger. Run. Hide. Anything than just standing here."__  
_Harry continued to just stand there despite his mental suggestions.  
"I am Professor Severus Snape of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You, I presume, are Mister Harry Potter. Am I correct?"  
Harry nodded as confusion made him momentarily unable to speak. How did the incredibly dangerous-looking man know Harry's name? And had he said _wizardry_?  
"Can I come in or do you usually prefer having your conversations in rainstorms?"  
Harry was half-tempted to say that _yes, he actually did prefer having his conversations in rainstorms, thank you very much,_ as he wasn't too keen on inviting the man in. This mental suggestion, to his survival instinct's great annoyance, was also voted down.  
"Sorry, come in."  
Professor Snape moved swiftly into the hallway, his dark robes somehow dry. His lips curled as he looked through the door to the living room and took in the sight of Dudley still snoring on the sofa, cradling the chips in his arms. Feeling his face get hot, Harry gestured for the kitchen.  
"Do you want a cup of tea?" Harry asked automatically, getting to work before receiving an answer as he needed something to occupy himself with under the scrutiny of the professor.  
"Is there any particular reason you continue failing to respond to your mail, mister Potter?"  
Dawning realisation hit Harry so hard that he almost dropped the cup he was holding.  
"_You_ sent me those letters?"  
"Obviously."  
"But, why?"  
"Did I not say I was a professor at Hogwarts? Does that not ring any bell with you?"  
Harry frowned as he poured tea into the cup and handed it to the professor.  
"I'm sorry, sir, not really."  
Professor Snape stood very still as he stared intently at Harry, totally ignoring the tea, and Harry did his best not to cower under the scrutinizing.  
"Awake your relatives."

…

I've updated this chapter slightly because there were some changes I wanted to make, but there are no changes to the plot whatsoever. If you've read the earlier version then there is no need to read this again, unless you want to of course (in which case I love you).


	2. Chapter 2 - Evil is it's own destruction

Author's note: Everything belongs to J. K. Rowling.

…

**CHAPTER TWO: EVIL CONTAINS THE SEEDS OF ITS OWN DESTRUCTION**

This day was the strangest of Harry's life as of yet, and that said something.  
There was the incident where Harry had accidentally turned his teacher's hair a not-so-complementary shade of blue, and when he'd shrunk one of Dudley's old sweaters that Petunia was forcing him to wear, and when he grew his hair back after Petunia gave him a dreadful haircut using a pair of kitchen scissors, not to mention when he found himself on the roof when Dudley and his gang were chasing him.  
Yes, Harry's life was _strange_. And yet, being told that magic is real, that you are a wizard and that you are going to a magic school easily topped any past experience. And the cherry on top of it all, of course, was that after Dudley had muttered some nasty things about Harry's parents, he was rewarded with a pigtail from Professor Snape.

Harry currently found himself keeping up with his professor's long strides down the streets of central London, people and cars bustling by as Harry gave his professor glances of awe when he thought the man wasn't looking.  
How they'd gotten to London, he wasn't sure. Professor Snape had strictly ordered him to hold on to his arm, and after obliging, Harry experienced one of the strangest and most unpleasant sensations in his life; he was being pushed through a small tube, while simultaneously being dragged and pulled in every direction. Suddenly it all ceased, and Harry was on heavily leaning on a wall in an alley in London.  
"How?" he had asked between heavy gulps of breath.  
"Magic," Snape had answered simply, and Harry usually wouldn't have accepted such a vague answer, but he was a bit preoccupied with not throwing up everywhere. After a few seconds of regaining balance and breath, Harry followed his professor out of the narrow alleyway, and onto the busy streets.  
"Will Dudley's tail stay on forever?" Harry asked, before pressing his lips tightly. It was not appropriate to laugh when cousins spontaneously grew pigtails, after all.  
"No," Snape answered, something Harry didn't recognize in his tone. "I suspect it will fall off in an hour or two."  
"Ah," Harry said, not quite able to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "Pity, I thought it rather suited him."  
So suddenly that Harry almost crashed into Snape, they stopped, and the professor took Harry's shoulder and steered him into a place named The Leaky Cauldron that Harry normally wouldn't have noticed at all. The place was crowded, the candlelit room heavy with voices and laughter, the light casting dancing shadows on the walls. Everything had muted colours, with brown and weary furniture. Snape found an empty table in a less crowded corner, and they sat down, Harry with feet dangling as they didn't quite reach the ground. As they sat down, Snape regarded Harry with an unpleasant expression.  
"Do you get along with your relatives?" he asked after a short moment of silence.  
"We haven't gotten around to kill each other yet, if that's what you mean." It was the kind of comment that usually stayed in Harry's head, but it had been a strange day and his head was having trouble keeping up with everything, not to mention censoring himself. If Snape was fazed by this talk of murder, however, he did not show it.  
"Charmingly put. That they have been lying to you does not come as a surprise, then."  
"Not at all," said Harry flatly.  
The elder wizard regarded the younger with slight curiosity (not interest, that would imply he found the boy interesting, and he was quite sure he'd met plants more interesting than the Potter boy could possibly be). The boy might not have proved himself to be the reincarnation of James Potter that Snape had expected, but the day was still young.  
"Are you prepared to hear the truth?"  
A slight pause.  
"Magic is real. Magic, something that not only ignores the rules of physics but completely alters my understanding of the universe and the fabric of the cosmos, has proven itself to be a fact. I honestly don't know how many more shocks my brain can take before lunch."  
"Quite," said Snape, regarding Harry strangely before continuing. "You can choose to hear it later rather than sooner, but it would be foolish. There are certain things you must know before entering the wizarding world."  
"Then it doesn't really matter whether I'm prepared or not, does it?"  
"No," Snape agreed, unsympathetically. "It is a long story. Therefore, I will speak, and you will be silent until I say otherwise. Understood?"  
Harry said nothing.  
"Good."

As Snape spoke, his voice was low but very clear, and Harry listened silently to the truth of his past.  
_"My parents were murdered."__  
__"He-who-must-not-be-named tried to murder me, but failed and destroyed himself instead."__  
__"My parents weren't good-for-nothing drunks."__  
__"But they _were_ murdered."_  
Harry took a sip of water (where had the water come from?), his shaking hands the only sign of his internal struggle as his eyes were dry and his face set, half of it covered in shadow and the other half illuminated by the dancing candlelight. He sat silently, clutching his glass of water so hard that his knuckles turned white.  
He was relieved to find that his parents were good people – to hear the Dursleys speak of them like they were the scum of the earth had always pained him, especially since he then hadn't known whether it was true. But that they were good people who'd been murdered for protecting him, though healing something in him, also caused him a different kind of pain. They were taken from him… why?  
Harry quickly shut down that line of thought. He never could stand those self-pitying heroes in books. Bad things happened to people, even and often for no reason.

Severus regarded the young boy, noticing something similar to ice seeping into the green eyes. He'd seen it before, though not in someone so young. Seconds passed, and nothing happened. Minutes passed, and nothing continued to happen.  
"Say something," Snape commanded briskly, bringing Harry back to reality. Harry looked up to see Professor Snape regarding him with a very unreadable look.  
"There isn't very much to say, I think," Harry said, shrugging, before continuing. "But I do have some questions."  
Snape leaned back in his chair, gesturing for Harry to ask.  
"You never said his name. He-who-must-not-be-named, that is," said Harry, pushing down the rush of cold anger that rose at the thought of the man that had taken everything from him. A pause.  
"It is not spoken, but it would be idiotic if you didn't know it," Snape not-quite-sighed before continuing. "I will only say this once and I advise you not to repeat it; Voldemort."  
"_Voldemort_," thought Harry, the name echoing in his mind accompanied with a twisted feeling Harry couldn't identify. He looked up once more and asked with forced calm why _he_ had targeted his parents. A pause followed as Snape thought, his mask neutral and revealing nothing.  
"They were known opposers of the Dark Lord. Perhaps he wanted to make an example out of them. Of what would happen to those who… resisted him."  
Harry nodded slowly, taking another sip of water. Why was his mouth so very dry?  
"What are you thinking?" Snape asked after moments of silence came and passed. Harry turned his gaze away from the spot on the table he had fixated on.  
"Exactly what you think I'm thinking, I think," Harry said quietly. "And how unbelievably bizarre it is that people believe I had anything to do with _his_ downfall, other than being present that night. The fact that a baby defeated him is not only highly improbable but seems impossible. There must've been another factor."  
Silence. Harry looked up to see the professor watching him calculatingly, before turning his gaze away to the other people in the room.  
"If I have learnt one thing, it is to never underestimate the folly of common people. If something is convenient or pleasing to believe, most people will believe it. And these were times of terror – people needed someone to believe in, someone to paint as their saviour. How could they resist the temptation?"  
Harry scowled then, too.  
"But it's a lie…"  
Snape's brow raised inquiringly.  
"Do you think they _care_? When they can choose to believe in a fairy tale?"  
Harry shifted, unsure of what to feel.  
"It rather _is_ like a fairy tale, isn't it? The orphaned hero. The villain, in the pursuit of strengthening his reign of terror, creating his own downfall. In the end, evil contains the seed of its own destruction. Where did I read that?"  
Snape gave Harry a very, _very_ unreadable look, before asking the strange-looking waiter to bring some food.

Lunch was a quiet business. Harry found that wizard food in Britain tasted just as bad as muggle food in Britain. Figures – even magic couldn't save British cooking.  
When both wizards were full, they prepared to take leave. It was then Professor Snape finally spoke.  
"Good Omens," he said. Harry met his eyes, confusion gracing his expression. "`Evil contains the seed of its own destruction` is a quote from the book Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman." Harry watched him, amazed.  
"You've read it?" Harry asked stunned, to which he was rewarded with a classic eye roll.  
"Is there any reason I should not have?"  
"Not really, I just didn't expect it."  
"Brave of you to assume you know me well enough to know what to expect."  
"I won't make that mistake again."  
The two wizards stared at each other for a moment, the elder feeling suddenly uncertain as to whether he knew the Potter boy at all, and then scowling as the boy proceeded to _smile_, of all things. Sighing, he stalked out the backdoor with Harry in his heels.

…

This chapter has also been updated, but the updates are minor and of no important plot-relevance.


	3. Chapter 3 - The House of Doom

Author's note: Everything belongs to J. K. Rowling.

…

**CHAPTER THREE: THE HOUSE OF DOOM**

During the next hour, Harry discovered that he actually _had_ money and that the wizarding world was much vaster and more complex than he had first suspected. In another reality, Harry joined Hagrid to vault 713 where they collected something very secret to bring to Hogwarts. In this reality, Snape decided to collect it later _without_ Harry, as he knew the damage curious students could cause.

"You will _not_ spend all your money on a golden cauldron, Mister Potter," Snape said exasperated as Harry stroked it, lovingly.  
"But what if-"  
"-I am your _potions professor_ at Hogwarts and I am telling you that you will not need it."  
Harry looked up at that, curiously.  
"Are you really?"  
Snape scowled.  
"Well I am certainly not the school nurse."  
To Snape's disgust, Harry laughed outrightly at this.  
"Good point."

They checked off one thing after the other on the list of school supplies, Snape wanting to make it quick and often having to drag Harry out of the extremely fascinating shops. There was one shop, however, which stood out from the others.  
Flourish and Blotts was filled with shelves stacked to the ceiling. Each wall was covered by a bookcase, and each bookcase was propped full. And still, books overflowed everywhere; tables, windowsills, chairs – everything had yielded its original function to serve as a place for swaying stacks of books. Sunshine shone through the tall windows, but had no chance to reach all the nooks and corners of the bookshop. The many bookshelves created a labyrinth of sorts, some of which shelves visibly leaned forwards or backwards and undoubtedly still stood due to generous amounts of magic.

After several minutes of Harry reading the back of each book that caught his interest, he finally looked up at his professor.  
"I don't know where to start. Would it be terribly idiotic to buy them all?"  
"Incredibly so."  
Harry heaved a sigh and managed to tear his gaze to the list of supplies.

The owner of the bookshop was very old – ancient in fact. Harry couldn't help but conveniently place himself behind the man as he climbed ladders and stools balanced on top of each other in order to reach the highest shelves. The man looked as if he could be knocked down with a feather, and Harry dreaded to think what would happen should he actually fall down.  
Somehow, the shopkeeper found all of the books Harry needed with no bones broken and all limbs remaining.

Snape allowed Harry to buy two books of his choice as well as the pensum, and at Harry's incredulous look, Snape reminded him that there was a library at Hogwarts, and that any book Harry bought would probably become a duplicate.  
After much thought and not little frustration, Harry finally decided which books to buy_; A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshsot for 2 galleons, which covered the history of the wizarding world up to the 19th hundred century, and _Hogwarts; A History_ by the very same author for 3 galleons. But as they left the shop, Harry realised he had forgotten one of the many bags he was carrying. Ignoring the glare Snape sent his way, Harry ran back in to collect it while Professor Snape waited outside.

He quickly found his bag and was just heading out when something stopped him; it was not alarming nor intruding, but a feeling he could not explain urging him to stay in the bookshop. Slowly, he turned, and his eyes fell on an almost unnoticeable book in the top corner of a shelf that stood hidden away in the corner of the shop. The book was bound in brown leather, and font in gold read _Wild magic_ _by Mara Gwendith._ Harry, without thinking, took it out and turned it around in his small hands, curiously, before opening the first page.

"_Magic always has been and always will be a vital thread in the fabric of the cosmos, tightly knit with time and space. It surrounds everything, envelopes all kinds of life and, despite not being sentient (at least to our knowledge), often works on its own influence. No witch nor wizard can _own _magic - magic is of the wildest nature and uncontrollable. We may have learned to call upon it and use it for own ends, but this is only one aspect of magic. There is another far more powerful but rarer kind, and it is called _wild magic."

"I see you've found our rarity," a familiar voice suddenly spoke silently behind him, and Harry turned around startled to see the shopkeeper, wondering how the old man was able to sneak up on him so quietly. Something strange glinted in the old man's eyes as he saw the book Harry was holding, but it disappeared as soon as it had come making Harry wonder whether he had imagined it.  
"A rarity?" he asked as soon as he regained his composure, turning his attention back to the book.  
"Indeed. It's more than a book, young Mr. Potter," the old man began, making Harry look up startled. He had not told the man his name and was still not used to strangers simply knowing it. The old man, however, seemed more attentive to the book than Harry, something he rather appreciated.  
"It's capable of projecting its text out on the page, as well as conjuring various object and even entire rooms to provide a safe environment for practising the book's various spells. Perfect for not only attaining knowledge but learning to use it – if one has the predispositions, of course."  
Harry stared at the book with newfound awe. "However, it isn't exactly a public favourite and restricted in many places. It is not something one can find in the Hogwarts Library."  
"Why?"  
"It covers some… unconventional themes. Some say the author of the book was deranged and wrote lies to cause chaos in society. This took place about a hundred years ago, and the Ministry did not take lightly to anyone that tested their beliefs – they still don't, I suppose. They burnt most of the copies and the papers to wrote awful articles about her. It was a tragedy when Mara Gwendith took her own life, and the Ministry was criticized and blamed for it. Out of fear for public opinion, they ceased the destruction of the books and the tragedy of Mara Gwendith was mostly unspoken of since. Critics discarded the book as the works of a sick woman, and many of those who defended the book are now gone. It did not take long for the whole ordeal to become mostly lost in time…"  
A heavy silence filled the room, and Harry studied the book further with furrowed brows. It was visibly worn, the colours faded and the corners soft. But it was in surprisingly good shape, considering how old it was, and Harry suspected the shopkeeper had gone to lengths to keep it that way.  
"Do you believe it? That she was sick and there's no truth to it?" A slight pause.  
"I believe," the old man started with a sigh. "Miss Gwendith's only fault was preaching the book as the truth with such certainty but no proof to back it up. That doesn't mean she deserved what happened, nor that the book only consist of lies. In fact, I believe her sound reasoning was why the Ministry decided to hunt her down – they didn't want her to convince the public of these radical ideas. Whether or not the books preach truth or lies, it _is_ a good read and a thrilling theory."  
There was a pause as the shopkeeper regarded Harry, something strange in his expression.  
"I had planned to keep the book for myself, but I have read it too many times to count and have a feeling you will need it more than I, mister Potter."  
Something in his tone gave Harry shivers, and he quickly changed the subject.  
"How much for it?"

It didn't matter that it cost 20 galleons more than his two other books combined. It didn't matter that Snape had told him to only buy two books of his own choice. Harry bought the book and carefully wrapped his school uniform around it before hiding it in the bag as if it was some precious treasure (in some ways, that was exactly what it was to Harry). He was just heading out when the old man called for him.  
"Mister Potter?" Harry turned around, his hand resting on the doorknob. "I advise that you do not speak of the book to anyone. It is rare, and both those who claim to support it and those who refuse it will try to take it from you." Harry swallowed.  
"Why?"  
"You'll understand soon enough. Have a good day, mister Potter." Speechless, Harry only nodded before exiting the shop, only realizing how stuffed the shop was as he was able to breathe fresh air again. Harry then approached his professor, attempting to keep his face blank.  
"What took so long?" Snape asked, impatiently.  
"I searched everywhere but couldn't find the bag. Turned out the shopkeeper had found it and taken it behind the counter for safekeeping." Harry pretended he didn't notice the _look_ Snape was giving him, as he skimmed through the list of supplies once more.  
"I only need a wand."  
"Ollivander's Wand Shop it is, then," Snape sighed, seemingly relieved that this was soon to be over.

….

Harry and Professor Snape exited the shop, a wand richer.  
"That was… strange," said Harry.  
"Indeed," agreed Snape, lips curling unpleasantly. "Mister Ollivander rather has that effect on people."  
They walked silently, Harry with a pensive look on his face, far too serious for someone so young.  
"It can't be a coincidence, can it? That _his_ wand and mine are… brothers? I've read far too many fantasy novels to simply dismiss this as a coincidence."  
"In case it has escaped your attention, mister Potter," Snape drawled. "Your life was not written by Neil Gaiman."  
"My books raised me," Harry stated matter-of-factly. "I don't think I am able to _not_ compare my life to stories and story arches."  
A pause followed, and Harry looked up to see his professor pinching his nose.  
"That sentence was correct, and the words made grammatical sense, but yet you've managed to say absolute nonsense, Potter."  
"Sorry, professor," said Harry, smiling, as he regarded the list of supplies. "I think we've covered them all."  
Snape cleared his throat, then.  
"To all professors' ire, students are for some inane reason allowed to bring pets to Hogwarts should they wish to do so. Namely an owl, a cat or a toad." Potter's face lit up at that, making Snape regret having said anything.

Harry entered the pet shop alone, as his professor claimed he had an errand to do (though he never said what), and that he was _"deathly allergic to each and every creature with two legs or more"._ When Harry asked whether this allergy then included his students, he received look number 5 (_"I am also allergic to stupid questions"_). Harry had come to categorize his professors looks as he had hoped it would make it easier to understand the man. He had, instead, become increasingly confused as the number of different looks got out of hand despite the fact that the man never did anything more dramatic than an eye roll.  
But that was beside the point.  
Professor Snape made Harry promise to stay put until he returned from his errand, before disappearing in the direction of Gringotts.

As soon as Harry entered the pet shop, the smell of too many animals in a far too little space invaded his nostrils, as well as the sounds of purring, hooting, croaking, and squawking.  
Harry had never owned a pet before. The only real experience he had with pets was Aunt Marge's dog (which had a certain taste for Harry's foot) and Mrs. Figg's many cats (cute, but viciously dangerous should you be so foolish as to pet them).  
There really was only one option.

Harry exited the shop with a birdcage in his small hand, within sat a snowy white owl. Hedwig hooted satisfied as Harry fed her some of the many treats that he'd bought her. In return, he was awarded with an affectionate nip on his hand, and Harry failed miserably at not grinning like an idiot.

Professor Snape had still not returned from his errand, and so Harry seated himself on a bench outside the shop with Hedwig by his side and an absurd number of bags surrounding him. He regarded the people, the _wizards_ and _witches_, that walked past. Children with ice cream cones taller than the top of their heads, students hugging and talking excitedly about the year to come, parents going from shop to shop with children on their shoulders.  
Something strange stirred in Harry, but he quickly supressed it and extracted _Hogwarts; A History_ from his bag, thinking that he might as well catch up on some reading while he was waiting.

And there he sat peacefully for the next quarter, glasses slipping off his nose so that he continually had to push them up, completely unaware of his surroundings as he was too enveloped in his book. Harry was introduced to the fascinating background of Hogwarts and it's four founders – Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff and Salazar Slytherin, each with their own house. Harry was startled into reality, however, as someone sat down next to him.

"You're a muggleborn, aren't you?" Harry looked up to see a young boy with a sharp, pale face and platinum blond hair, dressed in fine robes and leaning back into the bench in a lax posture, one leg over the other.  
"Why do you say that?"  
The boy's look of disgust was replaced by a superior smirk that made Harry's skin crawl.  
"You're reading a book about Hogwarts, which means you don't know anything about it. The muggle clothes rather gave it away, as well. Sadly, I promised father that I would wait for him here, so I have no other choice than to endure your presence for a few more moments."  
"How noble," Harry muttered under his breath, turning another page in his book as he hoped the boy would take the hint. The boy did not take the hint.  
"Why yes, I am actually. Draco of the noble and most ancient House of Malfoy. _I_ am a _pureblood_, as is my father and his father before that."  
"And yet you're still talking to me. What would your father think?"  
It was a guess, but obviously a good one if the way the boy's nostrils flared was any hint.  
"Where are your muggle parents, anyway?" the boy, Draco, asked coldly.  
"Nowhere," Harry answered tiredly, earning a confused glance from the boy. "Because I don't have muggle parents. You may not believe it, but I simply like to read."  
Draco considered him for a moment, grey eyes calculating.  
"Why the muggle clothing, then?" Harry unconsciously pushed his fringe down to cover his forehead as he turned another page.  
"I was brought up by muggles."  
"Ah, so you don't know anything about our world, then?_ I was right_." The triumphant, greasy smirk was back.  
"I was brought up by muggles because my parents were murdered."  
"Oh. Sorry," Draco said, not sounding sorry at all.  
"Spare me."  
"Do you know which house you will be sorted to?" the boy asked as if they hadn't just discussed murder.  
"I thought the Sorting Hat decided." This earned a snicker from Draco.  
"The Sorting Hat only sorts those who don't know where they belong. For the rest of us, the Hat is a formality. _I _know that I'm going to Slytherin. Father thinks I'll do very well there, indeed."  
A pause.  
"What do you think?" Harry asked, finally putting down his book as it was clear the boy wasn't going anywhere. He pushed his glasses up his nose as he regarded the young Malfoy that frowned at him with narrowing eyes.  
"What do you mean?"  
"You've said what your father thinks. What do you think?"  
To Harry's surprise, Draco actually considered a moment before answering.  
"I think I'll enjoy it. I certainly couldn't imagine myself in any other house."  
"You could always found your own house. The House of Doom or something." This startled a small laughter out of Draco that didn't make Harry want to immediately punch him.  
"It does have a nice ring to it, though I'm not sure Dumbledore would approve."  
"_Surely_ he won't say no to the _noble_ _and most ancient House of Malfoy_."  
A pause.  
"You're mocking me."  
"Yes."  
"Hmm. You have a lot of nerve… for an idiot." Draco reached out his slender hand. "What's your name?" Harry only hesitated slightly, before accepting the hand.  
"Harry Potter."  
To Draco, time stopped.  
"Why didn't you say?" he sputtered indignantly, wide eyes seeking the famous scar. Harry shifted uncomfortably, again flattening his fringe to cover his forehead.  
"You never asked," Harry shrugged, opening his book once more. There was a pause as Draco simply stared at him.  
"Hmm, yes definitely an idiot."  
Harry looked up, indignantly, to which Draco simply raised a brow that strangely reminded Harry of professor Snape.  
"It's obvious you don't know how to use your fame. Too bad you were raised by muggles; you could've been great. Luckily, _I'm_ not an idiot."  
"No," Harry answered. "You're rude."  
_"I'm rude,"_ he mouthed to himself and rolled his eyes.  
"I don't need your help."  
"Suit yourself."  
Harry returned his attention to his book, ignoring the boy beside him with much difficulty.  
"But just so you know," Draco continued with a smirk, and Harry closed his eyes in exasperation. Together, we could probably found the House of Doom."  
Harry laughed out loud and looked up.  
"No, we couldn't."  
"No, we couldn't," Draco agreed, smirking. "But I would've loved to see father's face."  
Harry told Draco that he knew the perfect intimidating candidate for the role as head of House of Doom, but was interrupted by someone clearing their throat.  
They looked up to see a well-dressed wizard with grey eyes that pierced through Harry with much contempt, the sharp face of a man of cunning and superiority, long platinum hair and an air of elegance and deadliness surrounding him. Warning bells rang in Harry's mind.  
"Draco?" asked the man, his voice polite though something cold and unpleasant seeped into the tone. It was bizarre how dramatically Draco's posture changed from casual to proper.  
"Hello, father. This is Harry Potter." Harry did not like how Draco presented him like something he'd found and collected. Nor did he like how Lord Malfoys cold eyes shone as he shifted to get a good look at him.  
"Lucius Malfoy," he introduced, speaking as if his name was heavy with importance, something it probably was. A politician of sorts, perhaps? Undoubtfully a man of the highest ranks, either way. Mister Malfoy reached out a hand, and Harry stood up and accepted it, some part of him thinking that to be an ally of Lucius Malfoy was much more preferable than to be his enemy. To his survival instinct's great joy, Harry decided to act appropriately.  
"Of course. Your son has told me all about you."  
Mister Malfoy's brows rose.  
"Has he now? All bad I hope?" Harry felt his shoulders relax somewhat, but not much as he smiled stiffly.  
"Of course."  
Draco opened his mouth like a fish as his father_ smiled_, of all things._  
_"I should hope so. Are you here alone?"  
The question was asked with an air of casualness, and yet the voices in Harry's mind rang.  
_"Danger. Danger. Danger."__  
_"No, I am accompanied by a Hogwarts professor, but was instructed to wait here for a few moments."  
"Ah, I see." Lucius Malfoy glanced around as if to reassure himself that the professor wasn't nearby. "And you are preparing for Hogwarts? It is Draco's first year at Hogwarts as well."  
"Yes, he mentioned planning to join Slytherin house. I haven't given it much thought, myself, but suppose I am more of a Ravenclaw."  
Something akin to surprise fled across Lord Malfoy's face, before it returned to his usual cold expression.  
"A worthy house, indeed," Lord Malfoy nodded, before continuing. "I am afraid that we are behind schedule and must depart, but I wish you the best of luck in Ravenclaw house, mister Potter."  
"Thank you," Harry said, unsure whether the last comment was meant as a threat or was genuine as the lord smiled, but his eyes remained cold and his voice sent shivers down Harry's spine. "Goodbye, Lord Malfoy."  
"I'll see you on the train, then," Draco said slowly, truly disturbed by the interaction. Why was Harry Potter sucking up to his father? Why was father letting him?  
"Good luck with the Doom thing," Harry said lightly to Draco, to which Lord Malfoy shot them a vary look.  
"Thanks," retorted Draco with little enthusiasm, before he and his father disappeared into the crowd. Harry watched them go and didn't notice Snape until he spoke, standing right behind him.  
"I leave you alone for twenty minutes, Potter," he groaned, startling Harry so much that he had to clutch his chest in order _to keep his beating heart in there_. Harry realised then that where Lucius Malfoy would kill you with elegance and poise, Severus Snape would simply kill you. "Should I be concerned?"  
"For my poor heart? Yes," panted Harry. "About the Malfoys? I think I know where I stand with the younger, but the elder on the other hand…"  
"How you've managed to find trouble already is beyond me."  
"I don't exactly look for trouble," Harry protested, uncertainly. "It's more… sauntering vaguely towards it."  
Snape gave Harry his Queen Victoria look ("_I am not amused"_), before sighing.  
"When I asked whether I should be concerned, however, I was not referring to the Malfoys, but rather '_the Doom thing'_."  
"Ah, you heard that, did you?" Harry smiled. "I doubt Draco will follow through with it. He cares too much what his father thinks of him."  
A pause followed. Harry looked up to see professor Snape stare at him with furrowed brows.  
"You are not what I expected at all."  
"Brave of you to assume you know me well enough to know what to expect."  
"Shut up, Potter."  
"Very well, professor."

…

Thanks to everyone who has read, favoured and reviewed, I really appreciate it.


	4. Chapter 4 - The paradox of choice

Authors note: I've really enjoyed writing this and to think that others actually enjoy it as well is mind-blowing to me. So, thank you all for reading and for the kind reviews.  
I know I haven't posted in a while and I don't know whether anyone has been waiting, but if you have then I am sorry and hope chapter four is worth the wait.

Also, I've made some changes to the earlier chapters, though only chapter three has plot-related changes. Therefore, I suggest rereading the scene in the bookshop from chapter three as it may be relevant to the plot. So sorry about this, but I hope you'll find this new development as an improvement that makes the storyline more exiting.

Also, everything belongs to J.K. Rowling, but you knew that.

…

**CHAPTER FOUR: THE PARADOX OF CHOICE**

Harry Potter was currently sitting in one of the many compartments on the Hogwarts Express, the train whistle piercing the air as the train plunged forward, rocking back and forth, its relentless whining and groaning comparable to a resident of a nursing home.  
There was one advantage of having arrived an hour early at the station (as his professor had had quite enough of him for one day), and that was the privilege of generous elbow room and guaranteed window seat.  
Landscapes passed by; tall trees reaching for the sky and bodies of waters gleaming like gold in the sunlight, the sceneries changing as the train plunged onwards.

Harry sat with legs crossed underneath him and hunched over a worn book in brown leather, the title _Wild Magic_ carefully covered by Harry's hand and hidden from any curious eyes, the owner of the bookshop's warnings echoing in his mind. Only after leaving the professor on the station and finding himself an empty compartment on the train had he dared take it out. Now, Harry was somewhere else entirely, carefully turning page after page and paying no attention whatsoever to his surroundings, nor how his large glasses slipped down his nose so that he had to push them up every minute or so.

Harry had read some quite heavy literature in his lifetime, yet it required some strain for him to decipher his new book – the language itself was difficult and the author used ten words where Harry would've used fifty. Each sentence was heavy with meaning, and though he felt satisfaction when he finally understood it, all satisfaction was squashed by the next equally difficult sentence. That Harry kept reading therefore said something about his insatiable curiosity, or perhaps stubbornness, and from what he could gather, this was what was written:

"_Magic always has been and always will be a vital thread in the fabric of the cosmos, tightly knit with time and space. It surrounds everything, envelopes all kinds of life and despite not being sentient (at least to our knowledge) often works on its own influence. No witch nor wizard can _own_ magic – magic is of the wildest nature and uncontrollable. We may have learned to call upon parts of it and use it for own ends, but this is only one aspect to magic – only one of many sides to magic as a whole. There is another kind of magic, ancient as it has existed since the beginning, and it is called _wild magic.

_Few are known to have accessed this ancient magic, Merlin suspected of being one of them. As he never spoke nor wrote anything about the source to his great powers, though, we are taught that Merlin was an exception to the history of magic rather than a confirmation to the rule.__  
__I, and some among me, find it more likely Merlin had access to knowledge and power unbeknownst to us, rather than simply being born the greatest wizard of all time. The power of which I speak of is, of course, wild magic.__  
__Many have tried to access this rare field of magic since, but none have succeeded the powers of Merlin. There is a reason the bravest of women and most ambitious of men have failed – they do not truly understand what they seek to conquer, understandably, as there is second to none material on the subject. What is essential to understand, however, is that wild magic is _not conquerable_. Similar to nature, it was here long before our time and will stay long after us. Only those who truly understand wild magic, accepts it, and have an affinity for it, can ever hope to call upon it themselves.__  
__Affinity, or rather lack thereof, is primarily why there is so little material on wild magic – affinity is so very rare and only those that possess it can harness this magic. Those that do not possess it find it easier to refuse wild magic's existence altogether, while claiming that the rarity of affinity for wild magic is a convenient lie for those that cannot actually prove wild magic's presence in our world. This also allows them to avoid associating the greatest wizard of all time with something so tightly linked to dark magic."_

Harry's eyes widened at that, and he quickly reread the last sentence. Though the term _affinity_ wasn't clarified anywhere in the book (to his annoyance), it did say it was connected to dark magic. Did that mean wild magic itself was dark? If so, the book implied that Merlin himself (greatest wizard to have walked the face of the earth, figurehead for the light side, living symbol for all that is good in the universe, and worshipped by politicians and the Ministry) was a dark wizard, and that dark magic had been the source to all his powers.  
Harry didn't know a lot about dark magic (or magic in general, really), but professor Snape had described Voldemort as a dark wizard. _A History of Magic_ had also mentioned a dark wizard named Gellert Grindelwald, who'd supposedly terrorized all of Great Britain, similar to Voldemort in his time. Dark _anything_ didn't really sound good in Harry's opinion. But was there a rule that determined you automatically became a dark wizard by using dark magic, or did you have to do evil deeds as well? And what was an affinity? Harry shook his head, deciding to look up both dark magic and affinity in the Hogwarts library as soon as he could. It was impossible for him to hypothesise further without accurate information.

"_I cannot promise you will find whatever you were looking for when you opened this book, nor can I promise that after learning wild magic's true nature, you will be able to call upon it yourself. But you will learn aspect of magic that others only dream of and about your own magic in the process. If you are very lucky indeed and possess an affinity for wild magic, I will teach you to harness magic more powerful then you could ever imagine."_

A sudden loud knock on the door startled Harry so much he could feel his hands tingling. With glasses askew, he looked up as the compartment door swung open, revealing a bushy haired girl carrying her trunk behind her with apparent difficulty.  
"Thank god, someone sane," she sighed, completely unaware of having almost given the boy a heart attack. "Do you mind?" It took a moment for Harry to calm his nervous mind enough to understand what she was asking.  
"Oh, not at all," he stammered, straightening his glasses as the girl smiled widely, revealing two buckteeth, and entered the compartment. She was only just able to heave her trunk upon the rack, and Harry used the opportunity to hide _Wild Magic_ in his bag and replace it with _Hogwarts; A History. _The girl, after struggling for a moment, finally collapsed into her seat with a sigh. Harry was the first to speak.  
"What did you mean, _someone sane_?" he asked curiously, thinking it ironic as he may or may not have been studying dark magic when she had entered. The girl merely gestured hopelessly to the hallway, so Harry stood up and stuck his head out of the door.

Chaos reigned – the hallway was packed with students, all with ridiculous amounts of luggage and many with animals as well, one of which croaked loudly as it jumped down the hallway looking for an escape, it's owner (a small boy with large ears and a frantic look on his face) desperately trying, and failing, to catch it. Harry swore he could see, smell and hear fireworks down the hall. Quickly, he retreated back into the safety of the compartment, closing the blinds and shutting all sound out.  
"I see," Harry said stunned, stumbling into his maroon seat as the train suddenly accelerated.  
"Quite," agreed the girl wholeheartedly. "My name is Hermione Granger. And you are?"  
"Harry Potter," he responded, wincing slightly and speaking as if the name was a bandage that needed to be ripped off quickly.  
"Jiminy crickets!" the girl said, eyes widening comically. "I've read about you!"  
"_I'm_ in a _book?_" Harry burst out, own eyes widening comically as well. "What a strange thought."  
"You didn't know? I'd have found out everything I could if it was me."  
Harry gave her a look.  
"It has been less than 48 hours since I discovered I was a wizard and my so-called fame. Researching _myself_ hasn't been a top priority, though I suppose I should. What do the books say about me, anyway?"  
Hermione froze for a second as she hadn't realized she would be tested on_ those_ books, but she soon recovered and squeezed her eyes shut in concentration, wrinkling her nose.  
"You're the Boy-Who-Lived, given that name as you survived You-Know-Who's killing curse. You were bon the 31st of July 1980, your parents being Lily and James Potter. You-Know-Who came to your home in Godric Hollow, though I don't know why, and you defeated him. You were found alive in the ruins of your parent's house near the burnt remains of You-Know-Who's body. Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief Warlock Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sent you off somewhere, no one knows where. Some claim that you survived because of your parents' sacrifice and that your scar is cursed, but _Modern Magical History_ doesn't mention any of that and warns that there are a lot of crazy theories about you."  
Hermione opened her eyes expectantly, as if waiting to be graded on how she had done. But she hesitated when she noticed _the look_ the boy was giving her.  
"Do you have eidetic memory?" he asked, closing his mouth now that he realised he had been gaping. Hermione, however, shook her head.  
"It's not photographic, though I've always wished it was. I had to read many of my books four or five times before I could memorize them."  
"I see," said Harry, stomping out the jealous feeling in the pit of his stomach "And you're going to Ravenclaw, I presume?" Hermione frowned at that.  
"I thought we were sorted by the Sorting Hat?" she asked, a hint of alarm in her voice. Was there another factor to the sorting that she hadn't prepared for?  
"Well, we are," reassured Harry, though Hermione still looked alarmed. "But someone told me you can usually predict where you'll end up – that the Hat only sorts those who truly don't know where they belong, and that the ceremony is a formality for the rest." Hermione's frown deepened.  
"I read that the Sorting Hat sorts according to each of the four founder's particular preferences in students. If that is true, then how can the Hat be a formality? Even if you were able to deduce where you'd end up, the Sorting Hat is vital to the process, and there must've been cases of someone being sorted into another house than they initially planned on? Sounds like that _someone_ you were talking to was just belittling the system, don't you think?"  
Harry blinked at the good question. Living with the Dursleys for eleven years, the kind of people that only read instruction-manuals and shopping lists, made good questions a rare occasion.  
"I don't actually know. But I know one thing."  
"What?"  
"You're okay, Hermione Granger."  
It was Hermione's turn to blink, but she quickly recovered, smirking.  
"Not to brag, _Harry Potter_, but I thought I was rather good."

The remainder of the trip went smoothly as Harry spent it talking with Hermione. It appeared that she, too, only recently discovered she was a witch, and had therefore spent the last weeks preparing for the transition to the wizarding world, making Harry wish he had discovered his wizardry earlier as well. They discussed everything from the Ministry of Magic, the different subject at Hogwarts to Hogwarts itself. And the Sorting Ceremony, of course. After much bickering, they decided to consult Harry's copy of _Hogwarts; A History_, and found that the four founders created the Sorting Hat with magic that is now lost, so that students could continue to be sorted even after their deaths. The book also mentioned that the Sorting Hat indeed sorted according to qualities. What Harry found truly interesting, though, was the footnote about a rumour that the Hat took student's wants into account in its sorting.

Harry found, upon discovering how the Sorting Hat truly operated, that he was growing increasingly confused as to where he should go. Though having initially thought he would be sorted to Ravenclaw (and being satisfied with this as it seemed the obvious choice), he was having second thoughts after realising _he might have a choice. _The Hat took your wants into account, meaning Harry could probably chose where he wanted to be sorted. Would it prove more beneficial to choose the house that encourages traits he already possessed, or should he choose the house that could teach him what he lacked and needed to learn? Courage, cunning, kindness and knowledge were all important to him, and Harry knew that no matter what, after having made this choice, he would always think _what if I'd chosen something else?_

It was the paradox of choice, something Harry had only recently learned about. It's much easier to accept a result if you initially believe it is out of your hands– the lack of choice leaves your satisfaction unaffected. But when people are faced with having to choose one option out of many desirable choices, they will begin to consider hypothetical compromises. Their options are evaluated in terms of _missing opportunities_ instead of the opportunity's potential.  
In other words, after choosing an alternative they believe they gain the most from, they'll still remember the sum of the lost utility and opportunity rather than that they made the utility-maximizing choice. Being aware of having a choice altered how Harry felt about the decision; afterwards his level of satisfaction would be affected.

Harry had only just been able to stop his big mouth from spilling all this out, as he didn't want to condemn Hermione to an eternity of self-doubt as well. She was obviously clever enough to figure it out herself, and she probably would someday. Harry only hoped it happened _after_ she was sorted so that she could go where she belonged without any external influence. For Harry, it was already too late – he had no idea what he wanted anymore and was currently overthinking it to such a degree that he'd gone from _"I think I'm a _Ravenclaw" to _"I don't know who I am anymore"_.  
Harry _knew _he was being ridiculous, that he was overthinking and that he should probably just go to Ravenclaw as he had initially planned on doing anyway, but something _still_ nagged in the back of his mind and wouldn't shut up even when he attempted to scare it away with cold and consistent reasoning. Harry hated his brain sometimes.  
"Are you okay?" asked Hermione hesitantly, bringing Harry somewhat back from his internal crisis.  
"Fine, thanks," Harry lied reassuringly, reminding himself that lying was better than condemning her to eternal self-doubt, and feeling the guilt loosen slightly when some of the wrinkles on her nose disappeared.  
_"Your second potential friend ever, and you're already lying to her,"_ internal Hufflepuff sighed.  
_"To protect her," _argued Slytherin, and Ravenclaw nodded in agreement.  
_"It is the lesser of two evils."_  
_"Whatever, liar,"_ said Gryffindor, disdainfully. _  
_Harry had come to give his inner voices names in hope that it would reveal to him where he belonged or prove helpful in some way. It didn't.

…

Once again, professor Snape found himself opposite to Dumbledore in the Headmaster's office, shoulders hunched, the right elbow leaning on the armchair, mouth set in a thin line, and pinching the nose of his bridge as if he had a headache, something he did.  
"So, how was your day with the young Potter?" asked Dumbledore, feigning ignorance as to what could've caused his professor's horrible mood. Snape looked up tiredly, opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it and returned to his earlier position with a sigh.  
"I see. Thank you, Severus, you may leave."

…

As the Hogwarts Express came to a halt, excited students scrambled out onto the platform. Hermione and Harry followed, trying to spot other first years through the thick smog from the train. Finding the other first years proved easy enough, however, as a rather large (and I mean _rather large_) bearded man holding a lantern and waving it about called for all first years to gather around him. The man, Hagrid, introduced himself as the gatekeeper of Hogwarts, and though appearing rather intimidating at first sight proved to be quite the opposite. Hagrid was explaining the grounds of Hogwarts and the tradition of first years taking the boats to the school when someone tugged at Harry's sleeve. Turning around, Harry's eyes landed on a familiar head of platinum hair. Behind him stood two boys, both with rather a lot of muscle for eleven-year-olds and giving looks that were probably supposed to mean something, but ended up just looking squinty.  
"Hello, Draco," greeted Harry in a hushed voice so as to not draw attention from Hagrid. The squinty boys cast squinty glances at Hermione, whom stood next to him. "Did you have a nice ride?"  
"I looked for you on the train," hissed Draco, ignoring Harry's question, his grey eyes flickering tentatively to Hermione as he spoke.  
"Oh, well we shut the blinds to keep the chaos outside. You must've missed me." Harry frowned as Draco drew closer, whispering intently.  
"You shouldn't be seen with her, she's a muggleborn! I know you said you didn't want my help, but this is-"  
"Stop, Draco. I don't care about all that… you shouldn't either."  
"Don't be idiotic."  
Harry only sighed tiredly.  
"I can assure you, of the two of us, I am not the one being an idiot at the moment," Harry whispered, though good-humouredly and with no actual malice. It did the trick, however, as Draco's grip on him loosened, even as he rolled his eyes and groaned silently.  
"Harry, you're going to regret this," Draco muttered, though it sounded more as a sincere warning than an actual threat. Harry regarded the boy, curiously, having thought the proud pure-blood would not respond so patiently.  
_"You're Harry Potter and probably have some influence, even though you haven't had the chance to exploit it yet," _thought inner Slytherin, ponderingly._ "Draco knows this, and your friendship is probably a tactical advantage_. _He cannot afford to lose it over something so trivial. You do realise that this knowledge leaves us with the upper-hand?"  
"Shut up, why don't you?" __said inner Gryffindor. "__This is not a game and even if it was, I don't want to play it."  
"But Draco thinks it's a game," __said inner Ravenclaw. "__If we play this right, we might be able to help him."  
"Help him?" __repeated Gryffindor, confused.__  
"It's not Draco's fault that he was raised by Darth Vader__," Hufflepuff pointed out.  
"__So you want to turn Draco to the light side?" __asked Slytherin flatly, unconvinced.__  
"Exactly," __said Ravenclaw.__  
"You're all insane," __thought Harry.__  
_

As they made their way to the boats that would transport them to the school, Hagrid described the different sections of Hogwarts, their names and uses, and harmlessly joked with a scared-looking boy named Neville (which Harry recognized from earlier as the one who'd lost his toad on the train). Hagrid patted the boy on the back, perhaps in an attempt to cheer him up, and proceeded to rescue Neville as the blow nearly caused him to fall out of his boat.  
Other than this, the boat ride was rather wonderful, and Harry suddenly understood why Hermione had ranted so enthusiastically about Hogwarts on the train. Hogwarts was big. Stupidly big. Tall towers stretched towards the sky as if rebelling silently against the laws of nature. Lights flickered in the many windows, illuminating the large grounds. Stone gargoyles stood placed and though they were, as mentioned just now, stone, their eyes seemed to follow you as you passed. Harry's neck soon began to hurt after turning and twisting in so many directions. Not that it stopped him, of course.  
When a large pair of oaken doors opened, the first years ascended a staircase of magnificent marble to where a tall, black-haired witch in emerald green robes stood waiting for them. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches, and the ceiling too high to make out. From the large doors behind the witch, one could hear the drone of hundreds of voices. But as the woman made no sign to move, the first years crowded around her.  
"Welcome to Hogwarts. I am Professor McGonagall," said the woman, her strict, Scottish accents echoing in the hall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. This will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting." Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear. Harry, despite knowing it was useless, attempted to flatten his hair.  
"Now, form a line, and follow me."  
Harry, who'd grown increasingly anxious as they had approached the school, was wiping his sweaty palms on the inside of his robes and hoping nobody noticed. His legs felt oddly as lead as Professor McGonagall guided them to the Great Hall.

The name was certainly fitting, though still a bit of an understatement. The Great hall wasn't just great - it was infinite. Or so it seemed, as the ceiling was wasn't a ceiling at all, but the velvety black sky dotted with stars. The hall was lit by thousands and thousands of candles floating in mid-air over four long tables, covered in golden plates and goblets.  
Harry wondered which one of the four tables he'd be sitting at the next seven years and felt slightly faint at having to make that decision _now_. What if he didn't belong anywhere? What if the Sorting Hat refused to sort him? Would he be forced to leave? Perhaps he could convince the Headmaster to let him stay if he became Hagrid's assistant of some sort?  
_"You're overthinking. Stop," __inner _Ravenclaw said unhelpfully, as Harry was quite aware he was making no sense, but unable to stop his mind once it had begun.  
Trying not to think so much, and failing, Harry's gaze wandered to another table at the top of the hall, where the teachers sat. His eyes immediately fell on a wizard attiring a ridiculously large hat and deep blue robes, similar a nightgown really, covered in moons and stars that shone brightly. Headmaster Dumbledore, Harry assumed, somehow managed to smile to each individual student simultaneously. So, _this_ was the Chief Warlock, Order of Merlin, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and generally Greatest Sorcerer of Modern Times? Harry, despite knowing that looks could be deceiving, instantly found himself confused.  
His gaze then wandered to a familiar face; Severus Snape was currently managing to scowl at each individual student simultaneously - at least someone remained authentic to their looks. Harry was about to point this out to Hermione when a sharp pain in his scar rudely interrupted him.  
There was only shocked silence in his mind, until inner Gryffindor finally interrupted.  
_"That was weird."__  
__"I agree,"_ nodded Ravenclaw. _"I don't mean to point out the obvious, but it is highly improbable that your cursed scar hurting, the very same that was given to you by Voldemort, is a good sign."__  
_Harry's palms were _really_ sweaty now, but he decided to store his new problem for later as he saw Professor McGonagall silently placing a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she placed a pointed hat. It was patched and frayed and extremely dirty, and Harry decided to let this pass as it as was an 800-year old artefact and this was only to be expected. He had not expected, however, for the _Hat_ to _sing_.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,  
but don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
a smarter hat than me.  
You can keep your bowlers black,  
your top hats sleek and tall,  
for I'm the Hogwarts Sorting hat  
and I can cap them all.  
There's nothing hidden in your head  
the Sorting Hat can't see,  
so try me on and I will tell you  
where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
where dwell the brave of heart,  
their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
where they are just and loyal,  
those patient Hufflepuffis are true  
and unafraid of toil;  
or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you've a ready mind,  
where those of wit and learning,  
will always find their kind;  
or perhaps in Slytherin  
you'll make your real friends,  
those cunning folk use any means  
to achieve their ends.  
So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a thinking cap!"

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again. And then, the dreaded sorting began.

"Abott, Hannah!"

Pause.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Bones, Susan!"

Pause.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Boot, Terry!"

Pause.

"RAVENCLAW!"

Harry felt an eternity had passed by the time the list closed on his name. During that eternity, Hermione had been sorted to Ravenclaw. This hadn't come as a surprise, per say, but Harry still applauded louder than any other first-year as she walked to the Ravenclaw table, grinning underneath the bushy hair that covered her face.  
For the fraction of a second the Hat was actually on Draco Malfoy's head, Harry half-expected to hear the Hat boom "HOUSE OF DOOM!". This fantasy was quickly stomped by a loud "SLYTHERIN!", to Harry's disappointment. Draco wore a satisfied smirk as he swaggered to the cheering Slytherin table. The squinty boys, a name Harry decided to stick to, were sorted to Slytherin as well.  
Then, at last-

"Potter, Harry!"

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.  
"Potter, did she say?"  
"_The_ Harry Potter?"  
The last thing Harry saw before the Hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good luck at him, and professor Snape giving him a look as if warning him not to set the Hat on fire or something equally disastrous. Harry sorely wished he could promise that, but after having experienced turning his teacher's hair blue, decided he couldn't really promise anything.  
_"Hello,"_ began Harry hesitantly as he had never spoken to an 800-year old telepathic artefact before. "_Before you sort me, do you mind if I ask some questions? I was wondering what you base your sorting on, and whether it is true that you listen to what students want? I also wondered whether you can tell me anything about the lost magic that created you?"_

In the silence of Harry's mind, where there had only before been his own voice and thought, came suddenly another unfamiliar voice sounding very tired.

"_Oh dear… you little idiot."_


	5. Chapter 5 - Harry realises he's an idiot

AN: Hello. Writing this chapter took much longer than expected because by the time I was almost finished, my computer decided to shut down and I lost everything on it. But that is of no importance. I have no right or authority to lecture about global matters, but the world is currently very scary, and I hope that you and yours are healthy and well. If not, my greatest sympathies. We are all thinking of you. Stay safe.

…

**CHAPTER FIVE: IN WHICH HARRY REALISES THAT HE IS, INDEED, AN IDIOT**

"_Oh dear… you little idiot."  
"What?" _Harry had never been insulted by a hat before, and the absurdity of it all made it very hard to actually feel offended.  
_"How strange. Of course, you wouldn't make this easy for me, would you?"  
_A slight pause.  
_"What?"  
_The Sorting Hat sighed, or somehow conveyed that it was sighing telepathically.  
_"Though I hold a certain amount of own power and memory, I mainly borrow knowledge from the head upon which I sit. I am but an empty shell that behaves and sorts children as they expect me to. Similar to a mirror, I reflect students so that they can sort themselves. Usually, students take it for granted that a hat is talking to them and do not wonder how I truly operate- therefore, the mirror isn't _self_-reflective as I don't ponder about my own existence._" The Hat droned on, a hint of exasperation in its tone as it continued. _"But _you, _mister Potter, not only expected to have the answers to your questions, but you expected me to be _sentient."  
_"What?"  
"You gave me a consciousness, Potter, which is a new and rather unsettling experience for me. In fact, I don't believe I like it at all."  
_Harry felt as if he was repeating himself, but his brain was currently malfunctioning and all he was capable of answering was -  
_"What?"  
"Dear me. My first conversation as a self-aware being, and I'm stuck with an idiot," _the Sorting Hat mused. Harry tried to wrap his startled mind around his current conundrum, one glum fact echoing in his mind; this type of thing never seemed to happen to anyone else.  
_"So… you've never been conscious before, then?"_ Harry asked clumsily, thinking it was only polite to ask someone you'd accidentally made self-aware.  
_"If I have, then I ceased being so once removed from the other idiot's head – either way, I can't remember. I highly doubt it, however, as most eleven-year olds haven't read _The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind by Julian Jaynes."  
"_Maybe they should…"  
"Absolutely not! I'd prefer for this not to be a common occurrence, thank you."  
"Right! Sorry,"_ thought Harry hurriedly, and then paused as he realised the implications and horror sunk in. _"Does that mean, once I've taken you off my head, you'll… stop being conscious?"  
"Preferably, yes, though let's not jump ahead. Why not discuss the reason you are here in the first place?"  
_A pause.  
_"The sorting, idiot. I'm supposed to sort you into your house, not have inane conversation."  
_Harry thought that was a bit rude for a Hat, even an 800-year old o-  
_"I was created from _your _mind, mister Potter. My being rude says more about you than me."  
_Stupid telepathy wasn't even letting Harry finish his own-  
_"It is insignificant," _the Hat clipped dismissively, though with a satisfied tone as if it rather enjoyed having the upper-hand. _"You want to be sorted, yes?"  
"Yes, but you haven't answered any of my other questions!"  
_The Sorting Hat sighed.  
_"On whether I know anything about the lost magic that created me? I told you that I borrow knowledge from the head upon which I sit –"  
"-But you also said that you hold a certain amount of own power and memory," _Harry interrupted, hastily. _"Surely you must know _something?"  
There was a pause as the Sorting Hat contemplated Harry, choosing his next words carefully.  
_"There is no such thing as lost magic…" _it began, gravely. _"only the ignorance of men. That the wizarding world fail to recall the magic that created me, does not mean that the magic itself is gone from this world. That is all I know."  
_Harry remained silent as he contemplated this. The magic of the founders _wasn't_ lost then; the wizarding world simply didn't know how to channel it. A stroke of insight.  
_"Was it wild magic that created you?"  
_There was a grave pause.  
_"I would be more careful, were I you…."_ The Hat said slowly. _"What is it that the muggles say? Curiosity killed the cat?"  
"Yes, but they also say that satisfaction brought it back,"_ Harry replied deadpanned, making the Sorting Hat laugh in booming tones.  
_"I have told you all I know but will give you another advice as you seem in sorely need of it: do not go around asking such questions carelessly. Certain people have already taken an interest in you..."  
_Harry hesitated, then, and swallowed hard before asking with much trepidation._  
"Certain people like Lucius Malfoy?"  
"For example," _it nodded, or rather conveyed that it was nodding telepathically. _"Now, may we please continue the sorting? I'm finding it increasingly disturbing in your head and would like to be removed before you turn into a hatstall."  
_Harry, who'd somehow forgotten the fact that hundreds of students were watching him, silently agreed.

In the Great Hall, whispers died away one by one to an utter silence that no one dared disturb. The suspension grew more and more unbearable as Harry sat under the Hat longer than any other student. At the head table, Dumbledore smiled calmly, though his eyes shone (anything _new_ became far too rare as one got older, after all). Snape was gripping his fork hard, his knuckles turning white as the fork made pathetic metallic sounds. Hermione was silently cursing herself for not demanding more time to speak with the incredibly old and fascinating artefact as well. Draco, though appearing outwardly at ease, felt suddenly convinced that Harry Potter would demand to be sorted into his own special house and the Sorting Hat would _do it, _andHarry would steal Professor Snape to serve as his own head of house, and Dumbledore would appoint the position as head of Slytherin to Hagrid or something…

"_I initially believed I belong in Ravenclaw," _Harry began with apprehension, and felt the Sorting Hat gesture for him to continue despite it not having any hands to do so with. _"But then I read that you take what the student wants into account in your sorting, meaning I could choose the house that will benefit me the most. Only… I haven't figured out which house that is yet..."  
"How very Slytherin of you, mister Potter," _it said, grudgingly. "_This is a very unusual way of sorting and I cannot say I like it. I have yet to sort any students wrong as my judgement remains impeccable, but if there is a certain house you believe you should go to then… I will consider it."  
_Harry nodded contemplatively.  
"_I can't quite picture myself truly belonging in the other three houses, but they'd offer me what Ravenclaw can't. To simply dismiss them seems stupid."  
"I can see this choice is difficult to you, and will therefore make it easier - choose Gryffindor or Hufflepuff and it will strengthen your warmth; choose Ravenclaw or Slytherin and it will strengthen your coldness."  
_Harry remained silent as he took this in, brows furrowed deep.  
_"What do you think?"  
"Oh, so _now_ you want my opinion?" _the Hat asked petulantly before continuing. _"There is but one house whose quality does not own a shadow. Where there is bravery, there is foolishness and danger; where there is intelligence and logic, there is cold-heartedness and loneliness; where there is cunning, there is deceitfulness."  
_A shocked pause._  
"You want me to go to _Hufflepuff?" Harry asked dubiously.  
_"It is the house of the hard-working, the kind, and the loyal. There, you would find friendship and happiness that you cannot find anyplace else."  
_Harry mind staggered at that, struggling to come to terms with it.  
_"Hufflepuff would prevent me from becoming everything I could be!"  
"How so?"  
"Because… because it would be prioritizing happiness over my potential. Happiness isn't worth that, not to me. I-I need to become everything I can be."  
"And becoming great is a necessity, is it?"_ demanded the Hat, frustrated._ "A requirement that exceeds even your happiness. Why not choose another way? Why not simply settle in Hufflepuff?"  
"Because… because I wouldn't belong! Because then I would fail!"  
"So what? What happens if you fail?"  
"I don't know, but I know I'd be miserable!"  
_Silence fell as Harry finally understood with icy clarity – it didn't matter which house was more beneficial. How could he reach his optimum potential if he did not go where he belonged? How could he become who he was meant to be, if he wasn't true to himself? It seemed obvious in retrospect. He really was an idiot. _  
"I agree," _the Hat sighed tiredly, reminding Harry, who jumped slightly, that he was not alone in his thoughts. _"Say it and it will be done."  
_Silence.  
_"Why do you hesitate?" _  
_"You'll…die," _said Harry weakly, flinching as he said it.  
_"I was not meant to be alive in the first place, mind you."  
"Yes, and I _am_ so sorry about_ _that,"_ Harry added hastily. _"Only this feels very wrong."  
"My only wish is to sort children. Are you going to take that away from me?"  
"Of course not, but-"  
"If you dislike creating conscious beings and then immediately terminating them, I suggest you do not repeat this to anyone. You can imagine the horror should children yet to be sorted find out…"  
_Harry imagined being given a consciousness and then dying again and again, before the Hufflepuff-part of him screamed for him to stop it at once.  
_"Quite. As I've said, I don't particularly like being self-aware; it's very disconcerting."  
_Harry couldn't find it in himself to disagree.  
_"I cannot say it has been a pleasure speaking with you, mister Potter. In fact, I quite look forward to being removed from your head. But I wish you well, and that you may learn not to be so foolish."  
_Harry chuckled inwardly, then halted.  
"_Wait_,_ what?"  
"This is…revenge, if you will. It's not as if you don't deserve it."  
_Harry's stomach dropped, and before he could object it was already too late.

The heavy silence of the Great Hall was finally broken by a booming voice, causing many to jump or scream in pent-up tension.

"THE HOUSE OF DOOM!"

A horrified _"No!"_ escaped Draco's lips before he could stop himself. McGonagall staggered at the podium. Snape dropped his now bent fork, and it clattered against the floor. Harry sat there frozen in terror, feeling so incredibly cheated and foolish and-

"Just kidding! RAVENCLAW!"_  
_

…

A small disclaimer: the idea of Harry giving the Sorting Hat consciousness and being sorted into "Just kidding! RAVENCLAW!" is NOT mine, but the works of the brilliant writer and rationalist, Eliezer Yudkowsky. In his work, _Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality_, something similar happens during Harry's sorting, and I was greatly inspired by that chapter. It was never my intention to plagiarize, and all credit is due to Yudkowsky. I highly recommend _the Methods of Rationality_ because it truly is one of the best things I've ever read.

Hope you enjoyed this!


	6. Chapter 6 - I'm not dark, I'm annoying

AN: Thank you so much for all the kind reviews, you are great! Hope you're all safe.

…

**CHAPTER SIX: I'M NOT DARK, I'M JUST ANNOYING**

The-Boy-Who-Lived sat frozen to the stool, hoping the castle would do him a solid and just open the floor beneath to swallow him, providing an escape from the gawking stares of hundreds of students, but the castle wasn't so loyal.  
Then it came, breaking the stunned silence and shattering the stupor: a high-pitched giggle rang through the Great Hall. Harry turned to the source of the sounds, and sure enough – Dumbledore was _laughing._ Not only was he laughing, but he was gasping for breath as his giggles became hysterical. Something in Harry's mind was confused – great wizards were supposed to laugh in booming tones, not… this.  
A few nervous chuckles joined the Headmaster, though most simply stared in bewilderment. Harry used the opportunity to make a beeline for the Ravenclaw table, smiling stiffly to his fellow Ravenclaws. They opened their mouths like fish. Harry was going to _eat_ that hat…

It took Dumbledore visible effort to calm himself enough to speak, but he eventually did.  
"Very good, Professor McGonagall. You may continue."  
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat promptly, holding the Sorting Hat somewhat more apprehensively than she had earlier.  
There were only three left: Lisa Turpin to Ravenclaw, Ron Weasley to Gryffindor, and Blaise Zabini to Slytherin. As Zabini sat down, the applause subsided and Albus Dumbledore got to his feet.  
"Welcome!" he said with open arms, beaming at his students as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to introduce the newest member of our staff, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirinus Quirrell!"  
Professor Quirrell had colourless skin stretched across his sharp face, electric blue eyes regarding them coldly as he stood up and bowed shallowly before seating himself once more. There was something _off_ about him, something other than the large turban.  
The applause was hesitant and scattered as though the students couldn't decide what to make of the new professor, either. Dumbledore took no notice of this, however, smiling as widely as before.  
"I would also like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!  
Thank you!"  
He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered, and then divulged in the delicious foods that suddenly appeared on the table, gulfing down whatever was nearest. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not.  
"Is he… you know…mad?" asked Harry the boy sitting opposite to him uncertainly. He was a Ravenclaw with curly and soft-walnut hair, thoughtful brown eyes regarding Harry hesitantly before he answered.  
"Mad?" he repeated airily, accompanied with a knowing smile. "Probably. Though my brother said that most of the time he's just pretending to be mad."  
Harry pondered this as he filled his own plate.  
"Most of the time?"  
"Well, don't get me wrong, Dumbledore's _brilliant._ It's just… I figure you can't be _completely_ sane if you're pretending to be mad that accurately."  
"Fair point," agreed Harry distantly, taking a small bite of the sausage. "Maybe he pretends to be crazy to hide the fact that he actually _is_ crazy."  
The boy stared at him, wearing a puzzled expression accompanied by a strange smile.  
"I have no idea how to respond to that," he said airily. Harry's fork dropped a bit on its way to his mouth.  
"Sorry."  
The boy shook his head.  
"Don't be, please. I usually talk too much, anyway," laughed the boy. "I'm Terry Boot."  
Harry accepted the hand much larger than his own despite that they were the same age.  
"Harry Potter," he returned. Terry nodded; his face suddenly solemn.  
"I know." He looked around for a moment, and Harry felt compelled to do the same despite not knowing what exactly they were looking at.  
"I don't really know how to say this so I'm just going to say it. Some of the others, they- they think you're… you know… dark."  
Harry stared at him with much incredulity.  
"I'm _eleven."  
_Terry shrugged, a pained look on his face.  
"You're also Harry Potter. It's not as if you were normal to begin with, is it?"  
Harry's face hardened. Terry's tone of voice told him that it was not meant in a nasty way, but it still hit home. "I'm sorry," continued Terry upon seeing Harry's reaction, words escaping him in a hushed manner. "It's just… you're The-Boy-Who-Lived, and nobody really knows what happened… _that_ night and-and now _this_. Nothing like this has ever happened before, you know."  
Harry's books had taught him that that nothing travelled faster than the speed of light, and yet he'd now found an exception – rumours seemed to obey their own laws.  
_"This is unbelievable,"_ ranted inner Gryffindor.  
_"We are at a _magic-school_ for crying out loud, and somehow we are _still_ the outcasts," _added inner Slytherin bitterly.  
_"Yet it shouldn't really come as a surprise – the House of Doom _does_ sound rather ominous. You cannot blame them. You must simply prove them wrong,"_ sighed inner Ravenclaw. Inner Hufflepuff was silent except for a singular, unending scream.  
"Harry?" asked Terry uncertainly. Harry looked up to see his almost worried expression.  
"I'm okay," said Harry, smiling stiffly. "This is just… inconvenient."  
Terry nodded. Harry regarded him.  
"But_ you_ don't think I'm dark," he stated after a moment, to which Terry looked up, stumped.  
"What makes you say that?"  
A small smile.  
"You're talking to me."  
Terry didn't smile, but shifted himself to completely face Harry, looking him up and down with one finger tapping his cheek in a pensive manner.  
"You do have that look about you," he said slowly. "But I can't tell if it's dark or simply _odd."  
_"Well, for your information I'm _not_ dark."  
A pause.  
"Then why did the Sorting Hat call out 'The House of Doom'?" Terry asked finally in a quiet voice. Harry grimaced.  
"I promised I wouldn't tell."  
"Right…" snorted Terry.  
"I mean it! All I can say is that I may have… annoyed the Hat a bit by being… well, by being an idiot. That's why it did what it did… I got pranked," admitted Harry reluctantly as he poked his vegetables with his fork. Terry paused and stared for several moments, and when he spoke, his tone was one of disbelief.  
"So you're _not_ on the path to become a dark wizard?"  
"No."  
"You're just an idiot?"  
"Yes. No! I mean-"  
Harry groaned and hid his face in his hands as Terry chuckled.  
"Well, _I _find your idiocy amusing. Unless, of course, you're only pretending not to be dark?"  
"Let's not go there…"

They spoke and ate and spoke some more. Harry liked Terry; there was a calm air about him that put Harry at ease, a rationality that wasn't easily scared by different or new things. Though Terry didn't really understand what Harry was talking about most of the time, he at least didn't seem to mind. In fact, whenever Harry said something strange that Terry didn't understand, he _smiled._ It was infuriatingly endearing. Terry was so great, and Harry had to wonder why the boy was still talking to him.  
Harry also wished the others would stop looking at him as if he was about to eat someone.

…

The Ravenclaw dorms were at the top of a spiral staircase that felt endless. The door had no doorknob nor keyhole, but a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. In order to enter, one had to answer a riddle correctly, something Harry thought was ridiculous and stupid and completely unnecessary and a dumb way to brag about one's wit (Harry wasn't very good with riddles).

The common room was a wide, circular room with arched windows hung with blue and bronze silks. On the floor was a midnight blue carpet covered with stars, that reflected onto the domed ceiling. The room was furnished with tables, brown leather chairs and sofas, and all kinds of silver and bronze instruments that Harry had never seen before in his life. The fireplace was crackling and had beautifully bound books stacked upon its shelf. By one of the tall windows stood a golden telescope, while a large globe stood at the other side of the room. The walls themselves served as bookcases, as there were shelves in the walls from the floor to the ceiling stacked with all kinds of books, some seemingly new and others obviously antique. Tall ladders moved independently along the walls so that one could reach the highest shelves.

Hogwarts was magical. There was no other word for it. When Harry bid Terry goodnight, he was sure he'd never fall asleep. But he was more tired than he had realised, and sleep soon overcame him.

…

The most annoying aspect of everybody thinking you're evil, was that nobody believed you when you said you _weren't_ as that was exactly what a dark wizard _would do._ Harry was convinced that everybody at Hogwarts was _mad_. Well, almost everyone, with the exception of Terry who was for some reason still talking to him; Hermione who, after being assured by Harry that he was _not_ trying to take over the world, was still talking to him as well (though usually sternly and about how he shouldn't trouble artefacts that were centuries old - Harry suspected she was more concerned by the damage Harry had caused _it_ than it had caused Harry); Draco who was insulted and annoyed more than anything else, that people thought _Harry_ could be _dark_, what with '_his lack of pure blood, his not-being-in-Slytherin, abhorring wardrobe, his muggle upbringing, and general lack of any poise or charisma';_ and Severus Snape, of all people.

"Come in, mister Potter," Professor Snape said ominously from where he sat behind his desk, filing through a stack of papers.  
"You asked to see me, sir."  
Harry had found a scrawled note under his plate during lunch earlier that day, requesting that he come to Snape's office after dinner.  
"Obviously. I presume you are settling well into Ravenclaw?" Snape asked as he set the papers aside, while his bony hands blotted with ink and stained with potions gestured for Harry to sit in the large black-leathered chair opposite to him. Harry sat with a huff, looking ridiculous and feeling very _small _as he was swallowed by the large chair. There was no way to sit with any dignity or poise as he sunk into it no matter how he shifted, and Harry was sure this feat was intentional.  
"There have been some minor unexpected obstacles, what with everybody thinking I'm evil, but I'll settle in soon, I'm sure."  
Professor Snape harrumphed.  
"I for one do not see it. Eleven is too young for world-domination, even for you."  
"_Thank you_. It only makes sense, a quality I have found remarkably rare at Hogwarts."  
Snape waved his hand dismissively.  
"Your classmates' witlessness is not only predictable but bores me. I am, however, _very_ intrigued by the theatrics you caused yesterday. What exactly was spoken between you and the Sorting Hat?"  
A tense pause.  
"I'm afraid I promised not to tell," said Harry, shifting even as he knew it was otiose. "The Sorting Hat was rather adamant about that…"  
"Was it?" drawled Snape unconvinced, raising an artfully arched brow. His eyes were sharp and piercing, and his thin hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. "And what of _the House of Doom,_ hmm? You expect me to believe the Sorting Hat played its first good-natured prank since its creation 800 years ago?"  
Another tense pause.  
"It had its reasons…"  
"_What _did you _do_ to it?" hissed Snape, something akin to dread on his tone, and Harry couldn't help but wince.  
"Look, I _really_ can't talk about it. I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "It would be really bad if it got out and I just want to finish this year without causing too much trouble…"  
_"…or creating any more conscious beings," _added inner Ravenclaw.  
Snape considered Harry for a moment, leaning back into the chair with a sigh.  
"Very well. You are of course stubborn as ever," Snape relented. "As for not causing too much trouble, I will believe that when I see it."  
Harry had finally given up his fight with the chair as he relented shifting and sank into its annoying comfort, shrugging apologetically.  
"It's the one thing I'm good at, sir."  
Snape sat with one leg over the other, all ten fingers pressed together in a contemplating manner and looking very much like he could do with some human blood right about now. Harry refused to be intimidated, however.  
"You may not be plotting world-domination, but you are definitely up to something, aren't you?" he asked absently, dark eyes narrowing.  
Harry smirked.  
"I would never admit to that, sir."  
"Quite," agreed Snape, reaching for a stack of papers on his desk and absently leafing through them. "It was foolish to ask so directly. Next time, I will make my snares subtler."  
Harry's mouth snapped shut.  
"That really wasn't what I meant, sir. Like _at all_."  
Snape's mouth twitched.  
"Dismissed."


	7. Chapter 7 - Rivals and friends

**CHAPTER SEVEN: RIVALS AND FRIENDS**

As days passed and Harry had yet to spontaneously burst into flames or produce red eyes the rumours that The Boy Who Lived was dark subsided and things became normal. Well, as normal as Hogwarts could be. Whispers still followed him down the corridor as he passed, and people queued outside classrooms to get a good look at him. Harry wished they wouldn't because he was having a hard enough time finding his way to the classes.  
Harry, Terry and Hermione managed to get on the wrong side of Filch on their second morning. Filch found them trying to force their way through a door which unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He wouldn't believe they were lost and was certain they were trying to break in on purpose. He was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they were rescued by Professor Flitwick, who was passing.

Friday was an important day for Harry, Terry and Hermione. They finally managed to find their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.  
"What have we got today?" asked Harry as he poured sugar on his porridge.  
"Double Potions with Slytherin," said Terry. "Snape's the Head of Slytherin house. They say he always favours them – we'll be able to see if it's true."  
Harry's spoon froze mid-air.  
"Really? I can't quite imagine Snape favouring _anyone. _This should be interesting."  
"Interesting isn't the word I'd use for it…"  
"Honestly boys," said Hermione promptly. "Professor Snape is one of the most skilled potions masters in Britain. Think of everything he can teach us! _I'm_ sure he'll be wonderful."  
As a way of answering, Terry choked on his pumpkin juice and proceeded to spill it everywhere, gasping for breath between loud coughs.  
"See, that's one of those outbursts we internalize," said Harry, pressing his lips together as he struggled to keep his composure. Terry glared darkly at him.  
"Shut up."  
"Or what?"  
"Or I'll hit you with my shoe."  
"I'm glad we know how to solve our problems effectively," said Hermione with silent exasperation, not even bothering to look up as she was leafing through a newspaper. "Hit people, that'll help."  
_Smack!  
_"Ow!"  
"For your information, Hermione, I think it helped tremendously," said Terry as he regarded the shoe in his hand, smilingly, while Harry rubbed the back of his head. Hermione tilted her head as if to say, _'I won't dignify that with a response,' _even as her lips quirked into a poorly suppressed smile.  
"I didn't even say anything!" Harry objected with much mock-offence.  
"You were laughing internally. I can read you like a book, you know."  
"Then you know what I'm thinking now, do you?"  
"Don't-"  
_Smack!  
_"He's right, Hermione," said Harry, putting his shoe back on while Terry clutched his upper arm in mock-hurt. "I feel much better already."  
Hermione shook and bowed her head in silent despair, her bushy hair hiding her otherwise amused expression.  
"You're both drama-queens. You know that, right?"  
_That_ gained their attention as their heads swerved to her and both gasped, affronted.  
"_Hermione Jean Granger!"  
"_How _dare_ you-"  
They were interrupted before they could say anymore, however, as the post suddenly arrived. Harry had got used to this by now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners and dropping letters and packages on to their laps. Hedwig hadn't brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the other school owls. This morning, however, another owl fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note on to Harry's plate. Harry tore it open at once. The scrawl was very untidy.

_Dear Harry Potter. You don't know me so well, but your parents were old friends of mine. I wondered if you'd like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three? Send an answer back with this owl.  
Hagrid._

Harry reread the letter; eyes alight. He then quickly borrowed Terry's quill and scribbled '_Yes, thank you. I'll see you three.'_ on the back of the note and sent the owl off again, wondering what the kindly half-giant could want with him. Not that Harry could decline the offer, either way. The man had known his parents – that was reason enough.

…

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle and would have been quite eerie enough without the distant _plips_ and _plops_ of waterdrops echoing down the dank corridors, the pickled animals in floating glass jars all around the walls of the classroom, and the potions master himself looming at the head of the class, watching them critically. He began the class by taking the register and paused at Harry's name.  
"Ah, yes," he said softly, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Harry Potter. Our new – celebrity."  
Harry snorted loudly and before he could stop himself said:  
"Celebrity here, sir," with equal sarcasm dripping from his own voice, to which he received strange glances from Slytherins and Ravenclaws alike. His pathetic attempt at covering his comment by coughing uncomfortably did nothing to ease the tension.

The remainder of the class went similarly, which is to say that it was terrible. Snape set them all to mixing up a potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticising almost everyone except Draco. Draco smiled. Like a lizard. Terry gave Harry a look that couldn't have screamed _I told you so_ louder if he'd been given a megaphone.  
Meanwhile, Harry attempted to salvage his own potion – or sludge, to be brutally frank. _When _it had all gone wrong, he couldn't say, though he suspected squinting in order to make the jumble of instructions on the board somewhat intelligible wasn't helping his case. Neither did the look of disdain Snape gave him whenever he passed his cauldron.  
The pathetic thing was that Harry cared. A lot. He had no lost love for potionmaking, but other subjects like History of Magic and Transfiguration had come easy to him, and that potions _didn't_ was frustrating to say the least.  
To make matters worse, Hermione's potion was not only perfect, but she was helping Lisa Turpin who worked next to her _at the same time._ It was maddening because Harry usually managed to keep up with her, even as she was excelling in every subject (except broomstick lesson in which Harry beat Hermione easily, but broomstick lessons were merely physical and not an academic subject, and therefore didn't count, as all Ravenclaws would agree). Soon, it became a competition of sorts of who could do better. They weren't rivals, per say, sooner friendly, academic competitors who also wanted to crush each other. Educationally.  
Only it seemed that Harry would lose their little competition as every potion he touched resulted in gurgling sludges. It was positively humiliating. Harry refused to be beaten by a few ingredients, a big bowl and a stirring rod.

…

"Draco!"  
Draco halted his stride down the corridor and turned to face Harry who was running towards him. Crabbe and Goyle turned as well, standing behind Draco and looming as they did best. As Harry approached, Draco sighed heavily upon noting his dishevelled looks, eyeing him up and down.  
"Your hair is a birds nest," he said flatly. Harry grinned, running his hand through it.  
"And yours could stop a bludger."  
"Touché. What do you want?"  
"Can I talk to you for a moment? Alone?" Harry specified with a meaningful glance, and Draco hesitated only a moment before sending Crabbe and Goyle away with a nod. Reluctantly, they obeyed.  
"They're very loyal very quickly," observed Harry as they walked away, to which Draco shook his head.  
"I've known them since birth. If there is one thing they're not, it's anything _quick._ Now, what do you want?"  
Harry swallowed, feeling his face heat up already. Draco crossed his arms, brows raising expectantly in that prude, pristine manner that made Harry's stomach twist uncomfortably as he waited for an answer.  
"Iwonderedifyoucouldteachmepotions."  
Draco blinked.  
"Harry, I can't understand you when you make no sense."  
Harry took a deep breath, his fingernails digging into his skin as he clenched his fists.  
"I wondered if you could teach me potions," Harry repeated slower with much difficulty. Draco shifted then, grey eyes glowing and a smirk gracing his expression.  
"You want me to teach you potions," Draco repeated, lengthening Harry's torment and enjoying it immensely. "Why?"  
"Just say yes or no," Harry bit out, but Draco shook his head.  
"I'll have to think about it first."  
"Don't think too hard; I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."  
Draco _tutted at him_.  
"You are hardly in the position to be rude to me, are you?"  
And with that he turned and began to walk away, but in a moment of desperation Harry grabbed his arm and forced Draco to face him, taking the Slytherin by surprise.  
"Draco, I-" he halted, but then decided that he didn't need his dignity anyway, and continued with a lower voice. "_Please."  
_There was silence as Harry slowly released Draco, who brushed his immaculate robes and watched Harry calculatingly.  
"You're serious," Draco realised finally, his brows knitted together creating a small wrinkle. "Why are you asking me?"  
Harry gritted his teeth.  
"Because you're good in potions. And you're my friend."  
Draco smiled, and Harry felt nauseous.  
"As much as I enjoy your change of heart," he said slowly. "What I meant to ask was why you want to be tutored at all. Potions doesn't really seem like your thing."  
"You're right," Harry admitted reluctantly. "It's not my thing, which is why I need your help."  
Draco considered him for a few moments, still very pleased with himself, before finally answering.  
"Fine."  
Harry's breath caught in his chest.  
"Fine?"  
"Yes, fine. You obviously need me _desperately_. Just don't accidentally poison me, okay?"  
"You mean you'll help? Just like that?"  
Draco clicked his tongue, crossing his arms impatiently.  
"Well, I'd ask you for money, but I know you don't have any. Though I suppose you could always owe me a favour…"  
_'It's a trap – it's a trap – it's a trap' _echoed the voices in Harry's mind.  
"A favour…" repeated Harry, eyeing Draco cautiously. "What kind of favour?"  
Draco shrugged, feigning innocence as if he wasn't already hatching a million plans for what he could have Harry do.  
"I'm sure one will make itself obvious eventually. It's the least you can do in return, after asking something so risky of me."  
"I didn't think brewing first-year potions was _that_ dangerous?" asked Harry, brows furrowed deeply, to which he received a flat look.  
"You think first-years are _allowed _to brew potions without supervision? No, we'd have to do it when there's no chance of anyone stumbling in on us. We'd have to brew at night."  
"Night? Like after-hours?"  
Draco's lips twitched.  
"If there's a problem, you could always ask Professor Snape for-"  
"-Absolutely not. He'd never agree. Besides, he finds me enough of an idiot as it is..."  
Draco snorted.  
"Quite. So, we have a deal, then?"  
Harry took a deep breath, before nodding.  
"Yeah, we have a deal."  
"Excellent," Draco said and Harry mustered a weak imitation of a smile. "I'm on my way to the library now if you want to join and find some reading on potions?"  
"Thanks, but I can't. I'm having tea with Hagrid."  
Draco rolled his eyes so hard that Harry wondered whether he could see the inside of his skull.  
"Are you _trying_ to exasperate me? No, strike that; no one could be so impossible on purpose."  
Harry shrugged.  
"He invited me, and I saw no reason to decline."  
"Of course you didn't, Harry; you're an idiot. Very well, meet me at the stairs by the dungeons tomorrow night."  
"You know a place we can brew without getting caught?"  
"Obviously."  
"_Obviously,"_ said Harry, nodding.  
"Don't be late," Draco said before turning and leaving Harry with a very bad feeling.  
"See you tomorrow," he sighed in the empty corridor.  
"_Well, that could have gone worse, right? Could that have gone worse?"_ asked inner Hufflepuff, lying flat on its back on the floor of Harry's mind.  
"_I suppose he could've said no and told all his Slytherin-friends that Harry Potter needs extra tutoring in potions…" _said inner Ravenclaw faintly, staring blankly ahead.  
_"Why do I have the feeling that this is worse?" _asked inner Slytherin, massaging it's imaginary temple tiredly_._


End file.
